The repetitive grind of "Are we there yet?" had become a rhythmic drone in Bathilda's ears, a maddening counterpoint to the rustling of the wind. Flo had asked the question with the tenacity of a persistent mosquito, each utterance laced with a growing impatience that bordered on outright disbelief.

"I think so. I'm pretty sure that's the one," Bathilda repeated, her voice a low murmur against the oppressive silence. The mountain loomed before them, a jagged, grey monolith against the bruised twilight sky. It was a scar upon the landscape, its peak abruptly truncated, as if a colossal blade had sliced away a significant portion. The jagged edge, the raw, exposed rock, it was a familiar and unsettling sight.

"You said that last time," Flo retorted, her words drawn out, each syllable a testament to her dwindling patience. The child's skepticism was a tangible thing, a weight that hung heavy in the air. Bathilda understood. The previous two mountains had been echoes of the one she sought, false leads in a labyrinth of her own memories. Each time, a flicker of recognition had sparked, only to be extinguished by the cold, hard reality of being wrong.

This time, however, the familiarity was visceral. The mountain's disfigurement was a brutal reminder of her past self, a raw display power. It was here, in this desolate place, that she had tested the limits of her strength, the raw, untamed force of (Wing Slash+). The memory of the energy unleashed, the sheer, destructive power, was as vivid as if it had happened moments ago.

"I'm sure," Bathilda insisted, her voice firm, unwavering. "Let's go."

They descended, the air growing colder and heavier as they approached the mountain's base. The landing was rough, the ground uneven and scattered with loose stones. The entrance, a dark, gaping maw, seemed to swallow the fading light, promising only deeper darkness within.

"Really, really sure?" Flo persisted, her small voice echoing in the growing silence. The child's eyes, wide and luminous, held a mixture of fear and reluctant trust.

"I promise," Bathilda said, meeting Flo's gaze. "I remember testing my skills here and creating that damage." She gestured towards the severed peak, the jagged scar a stark reminder of the power she had wielded. Flo remained skeptical, her expression a mask of doubt, but she followed Bathilda into the darkness, her small hand gripping the hem of Bathilda's dress.

The entrance opened into a network of tunnels, damp and claustrophobic. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and something else, something acrid and unsettling. It was the smell of decay, of death lingering in the shadows. The memory of her desperate escape, the fear that had driven her through these very tunnels, was a phantom limb, a constant reminder of her vulnerability.

They reached the chamber where she had faced the King Slime, a monument to her past struggles. The smell here was particularly pungent, a miasma of musty earth and rotting ooze. Flo wrinkled her nose, her eyes watering.

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"It smells in here," she complained, her voice a thin, reedy sound in the oppressive silence.

"You'll get used to it," Bathilda said, her voice wrapped in comfort. She remembered the stench, the suffocating miasma that had clung to her like a shroud. It was the smell of fear, of desperation, of the countless creatures that had perished within these walls.

The fact that she was willingly returning to this place, this prison of her past self, was not lost on her. It was a confrontation, a test of her newfound strength. She was no longer the frightened creature that had fled these tunnels. She was a (Higher Vampire), a being of immense power, capable of wielding the very forces of life and death.

The thought of facing the Demon King, of confronting the source of the evil that permeated this place, sent a shiver down her spine. But it was a shiver of anticipation, not of fear. She would not beg, she would not plead. She would offer him a chance, a single opportunity to embrace a different path. And if he refused, if he chose to cling to his darkness, she would (Obliterate) him, erase him from existence.

They continued through the labyrinthine tunnels, the darkness deepening, the silence growing more profound. The path led them to a dead end, a cul-de-sac where the echoes of a brutal battle still lingered. This was where the Alto and the Brat had fought, their struggle a desperate dance of death. The air here was thick with a residual energy, a faint echo of the violence that had unfolded. A kill stolen and pursuit given.

The dead end forced them back, retracing their steps to the spilt. From there, the path led to the pit, a gaping chasm that plunged into the depths of the mountain. The tunnels on the other side, the ones that had once teemed with Brats, were empty, a testament to her past carnage.

The pit was the only way forward.

Down.

They descended, the air growing colder and heavier with each step. The smell of death intensified, a nauseating stench that clung to the back of their throats. At the bottom of the pit, the remnants of her massacre lay scattered, the decaying bodies of the Brats a gruesome testament to her power.

Two tunnels branched off from the bottom of the pit. One was choked with the rotting remains of the Barts, a macabre charnel house. The other was empty, a dark, silent passage into the unknown.

Bathilda looked at Flo, her eyes searching the child's face. Flo's expression was a mixture of revulsion and disgust, but there was also a flicker of curiosity, a morbid fascination with the macabre scene before them. She knew which path the child would prefer.

Without a word, she led Flo into the empty tunnel, the darkness swallowing them whole. The air was thick with a palpable tension, a feeling that they were venturing into the heart of something ancient and malevolent. The silence was broken only by the soft rustle of their footsteps and the rhythmic drip of water, a constant reminder of the unseen depths that surrounded them.

The tunnel twisted and turned, descending deeper into the mountain's core. The air grew colder, the darkness more profound. Bathilda's senses, heightened by her vampiric nature, were able to pierce the veil of darkness, but she couldn't detect any sign of life, any hint of the Demon King's presence.

The feeling of being watched, of being hunted, intensified. The silence was no longer empty; it was filled with unseen eyes, with the whispers of unseen entities. Bathilda's nails extended. She was ready. Ready to face whatever horrors awaited her in the depths of the mountain. Ready to confront the darkness that had haunted her for so long.

The journey was a descent into the heart of her own fear, a confrontation with the shadows that lurked within her soul. But she was no longer the frightened creature that had fled these tunnels. She was Bathilda, a (Higher Vampire), and she would not be denied.